Eternally Yours
by Gosangoku
Summary: Both are still obsessed over Joan of Arc's death, and their most recent encounter is the anniversary of her death. — France/England. Merry Christmas, Jay!


**For Frussia (France and Prussia. Yeah, he's a combination)/Jason.  
**_**Jay, you're one of my closest friends, and I can easily tell you a lot more than I can to other people. I can never repay you for all you've done for me and all you've helped me through, but I know you love límons and FrUK, so enjoy the incest I wrote for you, aniki (no baka... demo ki wo tsukete. Daisuki, yarou.)**___

* * *

She was beautiful. She was strong. She was insightful, charismatic, determined. She was utterly _amazing_. She was Joan of Arc, and was the only person Francis had ever honestly, _honestly_ loved. It was not lust at all. When he had first met her, she had been a simple peasant girl in the east of his country. Later, he had found she had led the French in several victories already. A mere _peasant woman_ had helped him become victorious. He was astonished, if rather bewildered and slightly resentful. Despite his prior resentment to the strong-minded woman, he found himself drawn to her, found himself running into her on purpose, pretending it was either coincidence or that he needed to go over battle plans with her. Despite her hectic life of war, - and her young age! Francis simply couldn't believe she was only a teenager! - she had always spared time for people. As he thought, she truly was utterly amazing.

He tried not to let his curiosity for her control him. However, whenever in meetings, he always scanned the room for her, always felt a spark of jealous fury when she spoke to others, because... well, because she was so good, so amazing, when it came to strategic plans and precautions and... Anyway. Time after time this happened, it occurred so often that it drove him insane. She was put in charge of so many battles, and, although _he_ represented the entire _country_ of France, _she_ was the one in command, and _he_ had to obey _her_ orders. He always complied, because he was a coward like that sometimes. He didn't stand up to people. Not like she did. She had so much courage, and he _hated_ her for it, _destested_ her for it, _obsessed_ over her for it. He had an addiction, and she was the drug. He tried to better himself to show her up, but she was just too much of an asset to the French to do so, and she was just... she was just amazing.

He once finally, _finally_ worked up the courage to speak with her about something _other_ than battle plans. She looked mildly taken aback by the conversation topic, rather than the encounter. "Bonjour, Monsieur Bonnefoy," she had greeated politely as always, bowing her head slightly. Why was she always polite? She was France's greatest asset. If anything, shouldn't people have been bowing down to her? Yet, people merely passed her by in the street with nearly casual greetings. "The next battle..." she began, but was cut of, surprised when Francis grasped her cold hands, slender as a woman's should be, but calloused and roughened from so many battles... and at such a young age...

"I do not wish to talk about ze next battle," he hissed softly, his blue eyes swimming with conflicted emotions - distress, confusion, sadness, anger, and something else that could not be defined. "Madmoiselle d'Arc -" he began.

"Non, call me Jeanne." Her pale features softened slightly. She didn't smile, but her face wasn't set as stone as it usually was. Francis felt his heart skip a beat. She was so beautiful, so amazing.

He was reluctant to refer to her by her first name. "Jeanne," he spoke quietly, the name foreign on his lips, but it sent a tingling sensation running through his veins.

"Oui?" the woman prompted when he didn't speak for a moment. "Monsieur--"

"Francis."

"Pardon moi? Oh, oui..." She nodded curtly. "Francis," she repeated softly but firmly, also appearing as uncomfortable but surprisingly excited by the name she spoke. "What is it you wanted, if not the battle plans?" she enquired curtly, not used to asking questions. Usually, she was interrogated about her strategy plans. Not only was this a role-reversal, but it sounded personal, if the way Francis was acting gave any indication about it.

"You, Madmoiselle - Jeanne," he said, correcting himself afterwards.

"Moi?" Joan repeated. She would have sounded incredulous if not for the years of being in battle, learning to mask her emotions. "You know who I am. I am Jeanne d'Arc, and I--"

"Non, non, non. Non, Jeanne," he whispered softly, sounding almost romantic and passionate and... Joan dismissed her treacherous thoughts and listened to the man, quitely noticing that he was still holding her hands tightly. Subtly, she cleared her throat, and Francis blinked, and then realised and let go. "Je suis désolé, Jeanne," he apologised softly, averting his eyes. Joan fought back the twitch of her lips when she noticed his pink-tinged cheeks.

"Il fait beau," she responded, also glancing away. "Alors, what did you want, Francis?" she prompted again, not used to long pauses.

"I 'ave already said," the man muttered seriously, looking back up again, eyes glinting with determination. "Jeanne, I want to talk about you."

**O-o-O-o-O**

Ever since then, they had met up more often, _outside_ of meetings. They didn't often speak of battle, of the scars they had, of the wrongs they had committed, of the unnecessary violence, but, instead, of their personal problems and their pasts, of their interests and dislikes, and such things. They had grown close, although their relationship was very confusing. Francis didn't know what he felt for Joan. She was like a daughter to him in some respect, as she was a mere human, and a teenager at that, unlike him, who had lived for... for so long. She was like a best friend, someone he could confide in, and someone who confided in him in return, someone who could offer advice and support, but not pity or condolances; she was truthful. She was - dare he think it? - beautiful, stunning, _amazing_... and he sometimes felt as if he loved her more than a friend or a parent.

Why was it that anyone he loved got hurt?

Spain was constantly fighting with England and getting hurt because of it, and Francis resented the British nation for that. Antonio was strong, and he could definitely hold his own, but he was focused on so much more than war. He had a young nation to take care of and nurture, and he wasn't exactly well-off like "Britannia" was. Francis scoffed at England's old name, the one he had abandoned for "British Empire." He may be an empire, he may be successful and smug and selfish, but he didn't have love. He was alone, despite all of the colonies he had stolen, the filthy, wretched isle. He was a crook, a thief. Francis resented him greatly already. Francis had _raised_ the successful empire, and what did he receive in return? Rebellion. No "thank you," or anything of the sort, no redeeming qualities in the country he had helped and raised, no love. All England had done was throw it back in Francis's face and gain independence, and climbed up the ladder of success by knocking him out of the way and stealing colonies. He knew the fall of his close friend, Prussia, Gilbert, hadn't been England's fault. Actually, Gilbert and England had been friends also. But that didn't stop Francis from taking out the pain of losing his friend on England. It was always brought back to England.

Just like Joan.

Naturally, he resented the Burgundians for capturing her. But it was England's fault for the most part. England ruined Joan's life, thus effectively ruining Francis's life. He wanted to help Joan. He would like to say he tried to do so, but he hadn't tried to be a hero. He had sat in the court room, and that's it. He sat, on the edge of his uncomfortable wooden seat, watching with wide eyes and bated breath as the case went on and on and on for what seemed like forever. He didn't notice England's almost defeated-looking form on the opposite side of the room, looking pale and exhausted and weak. Looking, for all the world, like he just wanted to pass out. Truthfully, he just felt so sick and disgusted with his country - with _himself_. He knew Joan didn't deserve this fate. He knew what kind of a person she was. She was a hero. She really was. But what was England doing? Sentencing her to death. It was wrong. It was disgusting. He looked at the horrified form of France sitting far from him on the other side of the room, and felt even sicker.

It was wrong. It was wrong. He was wrong. Why was his country - why was he - doing such a cruel, disgusting, unjust, _wrong_ thing? He hated himself for it. He felt physically ill as he stood there, forcing himself to watch as Joan burned to death. He wanted to look away. Really, he did. He felt sick watching as her skin burnt, turning from lightly tanned from battle to bright red as the flames tore through her skin, her tissue, her muscle. He watched all of it until nothing was left of her. He stood there in silence for the longest time, holding back tears and vomit, as he stared at Joan's pathetic remains amongst the little flickering fire that was left. He noticed a large crowd disperse, many cheering (although their fists were clenched and they looked pale and they were heading to the pub), and some crying, sobbing, clinging to their loved ones. He was torn between the two decisions but, seeing as he didn't have a loved one to cling onto - Although he loved his colonies, he couldn't worry or hinder them because of this... insignificant... issue. It pained him to tell himself it was insignificant. Pained him even more than he already hurt. - he decided to go for the latter of the two options... after he removed the three roses concealed under his suit, very gently placing them before the stake Joan was... was killed on, delicately, one by one, and when he stood back up, he looked at his hands and, although they appeared pale, if not scarred, he himself for blood on them.

There was blood on his hands. Again.

_I want to be sick_.

When he left, after standing in the rain for hours and hours, standing before the heroic woman's remains, he began feeling dizzy and sicker than before. Jerkily, he walked to the nearest pub, filled with poignant fake-cheer, and threw up.

The only remaining man at Joan's place of death walked up to the roses, and destroyed all three.

**

* * *

**_Present day._

**

* * *

**

_As usual_, he thought, jogging through the pouring rain with his head tilted downwards slightly so he could see where he was running, _It is raining in London. 'Owever, more than usual. What is going on? L'Angleterre probably did this on purpose, le bâtard britannique..._ he thought in annoyance as he _finally_ approaced the Brit's house, dashing up the drive way and pausing in the sheltered arch way. It was pointless, as Francis was already soaking wet and freezing, but it was natural instinct to get out of the rain. He rang the doorbell a few times. "L'Alngleterre~" he called in a sing-song voice. "Let me in, you insufferable, tight-_cul_, let me in! It is raining!" he shouted in a whiney tone, wondering why England was taking so long. Did he want to prolong the torture of the freezing temperature? Honestly... He was prepared to shout again, but then the door opened. "It is about time, L'Angleterre. I've been waiting!" he exclaimed, touching his forehead dramatically. "What if I am sick? I do 'ope you feel guilty."

"I do," came a whispered response, and Francis blinked in surprise, actually looking at England now. The man was hanging his head, and lacklustre bangs fell into his face, covering his thick brows and his emerald eyes and-

"Why are you so pale?" the French man found himself asking, immediately squashing any worry he felt and hastily added teasingly, "Realised how much more 'andsome I am than you?"

"Sure, France," the Brit replied lowly, escaping the question entirely. "Are you coming in, or do you want to get sick?" he asked rhetorically, stepping aside before shrugging and retreating back into the house, leaving the door open for Francis. Due the the angle of the wind, some of the rain flew in on the carpet, and made Francis shiver. He hastily entered the house and closed the door behind him, waiting for, but never receiving the offer for a cup of tea. All England did was drag himself into the dark living room. Feeling slightly worried despite himself, Francis followed and blinked in confusion when he realised all the lights in the room were off. He moved to turn them on, but stopped when he heard a hoarse whisper demand, "Don't turn them on."

His exasperated annoyance with not-concern increased enough that it could very well be worry. He slipped into the dark room, trying not to kick anything and inadvertantly hurt himself, and sat himself down next to England, not sure if to feel smug that he'd be getting the Brit's sofa wet due to his rain-soaked clothes, or concerned that England didn't seem to give a shit. "L'Angleterre... What is wrong?"

Silence enveloped the entire dark room again, and Francis began to feel uncomfortable. Usually, when one of them stayed over at the other's house, there was friendly (and sometimes not so friendly) banter, and tea and wine and sometimes things they regretted, and sometimes things they found that they anticipated. But silence? There was never silence. They were loud and antagonistic and argumentative and exubarent and... the complete opposite of silent. Francis couldn't remember a time when they were silent together. Even after J-

"Do you know what day it is?" Arthur suddenly whispered shakily, fingers tightly clutching his loose trousers. _'Ave they always been zat loose? 'E looks like 'e 'as lost weight..._ the French man couldn't help but think before he registered the Brit's question.

"Day? Why, it is Friday..."

"No," the smaller blond replied quietly, shakily, meekly, almost... fearfully? He looked so pale and thin... And, now that Francis looked properly, England's shoulders shaking, his breaths short and loud through the room. "I-it's..." He swallowed, and Francis was shocked and dismayed by the amount of weakness England was displaying. "It's when... when..."

"It is when...?" Francis repeated, confused and concerned.

"Wait." The shorter man suddenly jumped up and dashed out of the room and into the kitchen, wretching in the sink. Francis grimaced painfully, pulling a face as he stood and followed, feeling useless as he rubbed England's back quietly as the man heaved up practically nothing. It was just stomach acids. He obviously hadn't eaten. After a few more minutes of England's gagging and wretching, he slumped against the sink. Francis hesitantly moved to help him up, frowning when he felt the man shaking.

"England... what is wrong?" he asked worriedly, trying not to sound desparate or pleading. He didn't think he had succeeded, but the shorter man didn't seem to notice, too busy staring at his trembling hands.

"Blood," he whispered.

"What?" Francis asked quickly, now extremely worried in case England was coughing up blood. He ventured a look, but there was no blood in the sink. He glanced back at his fellow blond, brows drawn together. _Why is 'e shaking so much? 'E was sick..._ "Are you ill, L'Angleterre?" he enquired, unable to soften his tone as he was just so jumpy and concerned.

"N-no," the smaller man stuttered, not even caring that his rival/enemy was witnessing him in such a state. "I... You-you really don't know what day it is?" he whispered softly, clutching the edges of the sink to keep himself upright.  
"Non, L'Angleterre," Francis replied, sounding distressed now. "S'il vous plaît, tell me." He was still holding onto England in case the man fell. _He's still shaking..._

"Today," the Briton said, trying to stop his voice from shaking, and almost applauding himself when he didn't stutter. "Today is the anniversary of... J-Joan of Arc's death..."

It was as if someone had flicked a switch. Suddenly, the worry of England's odd behaviour evaporated completely and turned into (self-)righteous fury. Feeling the bubble of rage building up inside of him, Francis tightened his grip significantly on the Brit's shoulders, and England supressed a wince. He deserved more pain than this. He thought that over and over, but his thoughts halted abruptly when he heard more than felt a slap echo through the room. Too shocked to react, he just stood there, head tilted sideways, before he finally felt the painful burning sensation in his cheek. It burned and hurt so much, but the emotional/psycholgical pain outweighed the physical, so he settled for letting the tickly, burny twinge in his eyes finally take control and let the hot salty tears spill down his flushed face, patiently awaiting another strike. _I deserve it_, he thought wearily, ignoring the painful feeling at the back of his throat, preventing him from swallowing his vile-tasting spit. He wished he could apologise, but his insurmountable pride and his and France's rivalry, and-and... Was that the only reason why he couldn't apologise? Honestly, what prevented him from doing so? He knew what his country did was wrong, so why couldn't he admit that and just...?

"'Ow _dare_ you...?" the French man began, fists clenched tightly and eyes smouldering like they never had before. He hadn't felt so angry since... well, since the incident spoke of actually occurred. "'Ow dare you speak 'er name? You killed 'er!" he shouted, pinning England to the wall, unaffected when he heard the painful bang, uncaring when he let out an almost-whimper of pain. "It is your fault she is dead! Your fault!"

_Your fault._

The words echoed in the Brit's mind and, suddenly, that was all he could focus on. The pain in his cheek, jaw, neck and back, and the rawness in his throat seemed to increase, but he barely registered it. He couldn't see. Everything, _everything_ was blur - his sight, the sounds, the feelings... everything. It was bright, but he couldn't see it. It was loud, but he couldn't understand it - he could hardly hear it. It hurt, but he couldn't feel it. Everything was swirling, mixing together in a combination of colours, sounds, feelings, and it was fading, fading... "I'm sorry..." he heard himself say, although it sounded so... different. He didn't usually sound that... that... scared? Vulnerable? _Weak_? Did he? "I-I didn't want... that... to happen... I... my country... I couldn't... I've always blamed myself for it, so... so you don't have to tell me it's my fault. I... I already know... I know that it's all my fault... I know... so stop... stop... stop yelling... I can't... I can't..." And it all faded to black.

**O-o-O-o-O**

_It was so hot. He was burning. He wanted to scream. He opened his mouth to belt out a sound of his scorching pain, but the heat entered his mouth and he coughed and he hacked and _it burned_._

He couldn't breathe. He was on fire. It was hell. It was really hell.

No.

He managed to pry open his tearful emerald eyes, feeling the tears drying on his cheeks due to the heat, and saw broken roses scattered around his burning form, and there was a large crowd shouting at him.

And France. France was standing there, blue eyes piercing through his own.

"It is all your fault."

**O-o-O-o-O**

A gasp. He shot up, only to yelp in pain and collapse back down. It was hot. Why was he so hot? Did he really burn? He wanted water... water...

"Take it easy," a voice said softly, soothingly. "You have a fever."

"Hnn...?" he whimpered in response, glancing weakly over to where the voice was coming from.

_So blur_, he thought weakly. "W-wa... wat..." he tried, only to begin hacking painfully. Soon, cool, gentle arms hefted him up into a sitting position and a glass was pressed against his lips. _Cool_, he thought in relief, immediately gulping down the chilling liquid. "More..." he pleaded weakly.

"You cannot drink too much," the voice warned gently, "It could make you sick again."

"Hot," he protested in a whine, all pride dismissed. "Too hot," he whispered hoarsely, shifting uncomfortably.

"Because you 'ave a fever." He was laid back down, much to his chagrin. "You must rest. Your body is hot due to your temperature. With rest, you shall be fine."

"S-stay," he whispered, not caring if it sounded like he was begging. "Don't leave. Don't go." He reached out blindly. "Please don't leave... Don't leave me..." His arm fell, aching, but was caught, and the owner of the soothing voice squeezed it.

"I will be right 'ere, Arthur. Always."

**

* * *

**

_Days later._

**

* * *

**

He could hear birds chirping. It was usually a nice sound for him to hear early in the morning, but the sound resounded through his mind and thumped endlessly and relentlessly. Knowing he would be unable to get back to sleep, he hefted himself up, swayed slightly, and sat back down for a minute. "Urgh," he groaned. "Why am I so dizzy?"

"Because you were sick," someone answered for him, and he jerked back and looked up with wide eyes, and Francis thought he looked a lot like a deer caught in headlights before the smaller man lowered his eyes and head.

"Oh," he answered, feeling smaller than he was. "I... I'm..."

"Sorry, I know," the French man recited, entering the room and taking a seat next to the Brit. "You said so. Numerous times in your sleep. Amongst other things..."

Arthur felt his already flushed cheeks darken. "What did I say?" he demanded.

"You begged me not to leave you." He looked amused, but his voice was softer than usual, and lacked its usual bite.

The Englishman didn't know how to respond. "Oh," he repeated again. He had no idea what to say. It appeared Francis was no better off.

"Per'aps I should go now," he mumbled quietly, not wanting to ruin the quiet. "I was only supposed to stay for a day. I've been here for nearly five."

"I-I was out for that long?" He swallowed. _Shit._

"Oui."

_Awkward..._ Arthur almost felt like apologising, but he couldn't. "I suppose..." he muttered, looking away to hide his disappointed face, but Francis caught his tone.

"You want me here?" He sounded smug. Prick.

"Of course not," Arthur replied huffily, crossing his arms tightly. "I just... Well, you said you'd stay, did you not?" He could feel his blush spreading like wildfire. _I did not just ask him to stay. No. No way did I just ask that bloody French _git_ to stay. No. No way._ He glanced at Francis from the corner of his green eyes and pouted more, feeling sulky. _Well, fuck. Perhaps I did after all._

"Zat is true," the smooth French voice drawled, and Arthur blinked in surprise, turning to the elder nation with curiosity written clearly on his face.

"What...?" he asked, frowning in confusion, before tensing when he felt Francis's hand cupping his cheek, and he winced slightly.

The elder nation's face darkened slightly when he saw the grimace. "Does... Does it still hurt?" he enquired, gently stroking the Briton's face.

Arthur began to feel suspicious. "Why are you acting like this?" he demanded. When Francis raised a brow, he elaborated, "You got angr--" He paused and shook his head. He couldn't phrase it like that - he would sound like a child! "I... I reminded you of when I... when I..." His throat constricted and he found it difficult to swallow, but when he felt strong, soft lips upon his chapped ones, he no longer felt the need to do so. Wide-eyed, the Brit just stared at Francis in extreme shock. He didn't think, he didn't breath, he didn't react. Francis slowly pulled away with a wistful sigh, and he ran his hand through his curley blond hair before dropping it into his lap and turning to look out the window instead of at Arthur.

"Like I said," he murmured, still not meeting Arthur's perplexed gaze. "When you were... When you were ill, you said some things..." He dropped his gaze into his lap now, face hidden behind his long blond bangs. "You... really 'ave been blaming yourself for 'er death all this time?" he asked softly, not looking up, but feeling the Brit tense beside him, and he knew that his question was answered. He looked up, seeing that Arthur had opened his mouth to say something but, before the younger nation could speak, he sealed his lips with another kiss. This one, however, was longer. Francis's lips pressed against Arthur's with more strength than before, licking the chapped lips and wondering just how the Brit _always_ tasted like tea, but he didn't spend too much time wondering, and, after he had softened the chapped lips, his tongue prodded gently as he pushed Arthur down so he was laying on the bed, and prompted the Englishman to part his lips. The smaller nation begrudginly granted him entrance and shifted nervously beneath the French man as his tongue explored his mouth, making him feel tingly all over. He squirmed uncomfortably against the tingly feeling, wondering why he was feeling so light-headed. He blamed it on being ill before, although he wasn't fooling anyone, not even himself.

"Why are we doing this?" he asked, breathlessly, through kisses, scarcely able to speak as the French man was occupying his lips. "Don't we hate each other?" He gasped at the end of his question when the elder country bit down on his lip.

"I do not know," the elder blond replied in a husky whisper, kisses the Brit's jaw gently before trailing the soft, tickly butterfly kisses down Arthur's neck and bit his collarbone firmly, and apologetically licking at that spot when the man below him whimpered. "You know what zey say," he whispered throatily, kissing Arthur again briefly before pulling the man's shirt off completely and tossing it to one side. "'Zere is a thin line between love and 'ate,'" he recited, and then lowered himself to toy with the Brit's perked nipples teasingly, making the blond writhe beneath him.

"S-stop teasing me," he nearly whined, squirming uncomfortably and trying to stop himself from arching his back.

"You do not like foreplay?" Francis teased, leaning down to bite the Brit's neck, whilst still twisting the nipples relentlessly, and Arthur whined weakly again. The French man relinquished his mouth's grasp on the Englishman's pale neck to whisper hotly next to his ear, "Oh, alright. I will stop teasing you." He smirked victoriously when the Briton shuddered. _Sensitive ears?_ He wondered, and tested the theory by gently nibbling the cartilage of Arthur's ear whilst pulling off the man's boxer shorts. It suddenly seemed more convenient that Arthur had been in bed all this time; he had only been wearing boxers and a shirt.

The Englishman blushed an even deeper shade of red than he had already been, and moved to unzip Francis's trousers, but the French man caught his hands. He blinked, befuddled, but Francis whispered huskily, "It is fine. Let me." He removed his clothes as quickly as possible, but slowly enough for the Brit to admire his finely-chisled abs and creamy skin, although he wasn't as pale as Arthur. He was actually quite stunned to see how pale the Brit was, given he had spent so long out at sea as a pirate. Not to say that Arthur's skin was unblemished; his body was practically littered with scars, most of which thin lines, but he did have a fair share of larger scars from possibly what once could have been life-threatening wounds. Francis knew he had a lot of them too, but countries didn't usually discuss their numerous scars. It was a bold move, as such, when he crawled back on top of Arthur and softly kissed a scar on the flesh above his heart. As predicted, the Briton tensed for a moment, before relaxing slightly. His muscles felt tight, however, and he was clutching the sheets as if his life depended on it. When Francis sensually ran his fingers over one hand, it contracted further. "Arthur," he said quietly. "Arthur, relax. Calm down."

Arthur twitched a couple of times before drawing in a deep breath and trying to force his muscles to relax. He forced his eyes open, feeling strangely vulnerable, naked under the watchful blue eyes. "Wh-what are you looking at, you git?" he muttered weakly, glancing away, but Francis grabbed his chin and forced him to look up, right into his eyes.

"You." Not giving the Briton time time to respond, he claimed his swollen lips for the umpteenth time and, when he was sure that Arthur was too delirious from the high of the kiss to respond, he pulled away slowly, their mouths connected by a trail of saliva, and Francis stared down at the blushing Brit and asked, "Où est votre lubrification?"

The Englishman managed to regain himself enough to scowl in embarrassment. "Why do you automatically assume I have l-lubrication?" he stuttered, flushing in shame.

"Well," Francis drawled, rolling his blue eyes. "You are a closet pervert. You were raised by me. I am slightly disappointed with ze way you turned out, but I shall not complain. So, is it in your bedside table?" he asked, and when Arthur's blush deepened, he chuckled and leant over to grab it, quirking an eyebrow. "C'est rose... o rouge. Pourquoi?" He sniggered, but when the Brit glared impatiently at him, he shrugged. "D'accord," he said, "I did not know you were so excited for me to be inside of y--"

"D-don't you dare finish that sentence!" Despite his undignified squeak, his glare was furious enough to make Francis surrender.

"Alright, alright. Calm down." He said and, as he squirted the gel onto his hands and rubbed it onto his member, he thought to prepare Arthur. Adding some more gel to his fingers, he prompted the Brit to raise himself up. Against his better judgement, Arthur shifted and leant up slightly and bit his lip to prevent a yelp of pain when cold, slick fingers circled his hole and then intruded. The intrusion felt foreign, and it hurt a bit. He squirmed against it, muscles constricting again, but that just increased the pain. He tried not to whimper, but he didn't know if he succeeded. "Shh, shh. Arthur, respirer. Breathe," he soothed with surprising gentleness, and Arthur forced himself to comply. He took another deep breath, allowing his muscles to relax, and tried to remain calm when Francis inserted another finger and made sissoring motions, stretching the Brit so he could fit himself.

"Mm," Arthur whimpered softly, but tried to mask it. Francis heard it anyway. Feeling generous (although he'd definitely tease the Brit in the morning), he silently leant down and pressed his lips against the younger country's. "F-France..." he whispered softly between kisses, and the French man reluctantly paused to listen to the shorter man's pleas. "J-just... get on with i-it," he ordered, cheeks dusted a deep pink and bright green eyes averted in embarrassment, but body obviously more than willing. Francis decided he liked it when Arthur was so timid. Not that he didn't like it when the Brit was feisty. Either way, he was pleased. This was just a welcome change.

"As you wish," he replied lowly, planting another kiss on Arthur's swollen lips as he extracted his fingers, and using the kiss as a distraction as he positioned himself and, with much restraint, pushed himself slowly into the tight heat. He felt the younger country gasped into the kiss and arch his back.

"F-Francis!" he cried, clamping his eyes shut and biting his red lip as he clenched the sheets beneath his slender fingers and arched his back, unknowingly giving Francis easier access. He whimpered painfully.

Somehow managing to restrain himself, the taller man leant down slightly and intertwined his hands with Arthur's, giving the younger blond another kiss. "Hush," he whispered gently into the kiss, his hot breath ghosting over the Briton's lips and making him feel tingly. He gave a sharp thrust, wincing when the Englishman cried out. He whispered soothing words and bestowed many kisses upon Arthur's heated pale flesh as he thrust and groaned along with Arthur's cries and moans, until the Brit suddenly gasped loudly and tightened his hold on Francis's hand, moaning Francis's name and rocking his hips against him, and the French man knew he had hit the younger country's prostate. Feeling mildly (or more than mildly) proud of himself, he thrust into the same spot repeatedly, not breaking the kiss or their entwined hands.

"A-ahh... F-Fra-Francis! Nn..." Arthur moaned, and Francis stared down, through a veil of lust, watching the Englishman's face; instead of pale as he usually was, his skin was flushed, his chapped lips were swollen and red, and tears were rolling down his heated cheeks.

"Mon cher," the French man whispered gently, leaning down to softly lick away the salty tears, still plunging in and out of the man beneath him, "Why are you crying?"

The Brit gasped softly, groaning and thrusting his hips upwards to feel more. He moaned loudly, cold, slender fingers tightening around Francis's hands as he writhed and squirmed. "F-Francis, I-I'm... I'm going to..."

"I know, mon ami," the man replied breathily, thrusting deep inside of the tight heat and pressing his lips back against Arthur's as he could feel himself reaching his limit as well, the heat pooling up, and it felt too much, and it was so frustrating but it felt _so good_ and-

"Ah! Francis!" Arthur cried sharply into the kiss as he came, and the sight of which triggered Francis's erection to let go, and he came inside of the Brit beneath him, and only then did he break the kiss for air. The Franch man collapsed in relief, but upon hearing Arthur's tired grunt of disapproval, he rolled onto his back and pulled the sedated man to his chest, wrapping an arm around the Englishman's waist as he held him close. They laid there in silence for a few minutes, regaining their breath and, just as Francis was beginning to drift off, the younger country muttered wearily, sounding embarrassed, "Th-this... I hope you know that this isn't... i-it isn't going to happen often..."

_'E didn't say it will never 'appen again though..._ "Oui, mon cher... Does this mean...?"

Arthur blushed and buried his face in Francis's chest. "I-I... M-maybe we can... sometimes... go out and such, but... I... I don't want a r-relationship just for..."

"Sex?" Francis supplied, shameless, and his lips quirked upwards when Arthur's blush darkened.

"Yeah," the smaller blond agreed. "S-so... Ah?" he all but squeaked when a kiss was placed on his temple, and he blinked owlishly at the older country.

"I understand, sourcils." Arthur scowled. "You do not 'ave to say it." Francis smiled tiredly at his... lover? "Sleep now, oui?"

Arthur didn't have to be told twice. Laying his head back down on Francis's chest, he mumbled (with a terrible accent), "Bon nuit."

Chuckling softly and hugging the man closer, he whispered goodnight in his ear, and both drifted off to a peaceful sleep in each other's arms.

**O-o-O-o-O**

_**Axis Powers Hetalia**_** belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.**_**Loveyougit**_**.**_**twtiches**_**-)**

FrUK (FrancexEngland/FrancisxArthur) for my git of a non-blood-related-brother, Jason. Merry Christmas, brusband.

This didn't turn out as well as I'd hoped, but it'll do, I suppose... I hope you like it. (No doubt Jay's just gonna skip most of it and read the lemon, though... -


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